


Jeeves and the Sensitive Sight

by GlassRain



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Color Blindness, Fluff, Gen, Loyalty, Noodle Incidents, Pre-Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, Unrecognized feelings, sartorial mishaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28115610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassRain/pseuds/GlassRain
Summary: The return of a burgundy suit causes more turmoil than its original purchase; Bertie makes a disquieting personal discovery; Jeeves lays out mismatched socks; and Madeline takes up flower arrangement.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves & Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 27
Kudos: 92
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Jeeves and the Sensitive Sight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tibby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Tibby!
> 
> This has references to a few specific early-20th-century discoveries and events; I took full advantage of the nebulous handwavey era of canon, and didn't worry about being period-accurate to a particular year. I don't think it came out shippy enough to tag but I did write it as "they have feelings for each other, they just haven't realized it yet." (Or perhaps Jeeves has . . .? It's hard to tell.)

Dear reader, I must open this story on a note of caution. Do sit down, if you are standing up – I don’t know many folks who prefer to read while standing, but this Wooster endeavours to be accepting and supportive of all sorts.

You see, if you have become accustomed to the ordinary format of my little writings, you may be caught off-guard by the way this one begins. Or rather – because I suppose at this point I have technically begun with the warning – you may also be taken aback by whatever you call the bit that comes directly _after_ the beginning. (Jeeves might know.)

There has been a certain tendency on the Wooster part to begin a story _in medias res –_ that is to say, to jump in when the fruity bit has already gotten going. Then the writing circles back, rather sheepishly, to the useful explanations and character-building moments and so forth in the way of setup.

“I say!” you may be I-saying now. “Does this mean you have gone at this narrative with a keen editorial eye, and rearranged the scenes before publication, so that the final version does in fact begin with the beginning?”

On the contrary – and this is the precise moment where, if you are reading this in the bath, you should take pains not to hold the manuscript over the water – I intend to begin this one at the _end_.

That is to say, the part where I, overcome with the spirit of gratitude, informed Jeeves, “As for the burgundy suit – return it.”

Now, in other circumstances I would be stumbling backward to describe the initial reaction to the burgundy suit. Then I might carry on to enlighten the reader on the whole intervening sequence of disasters, involving my Aunt Agatha, a taxidermied carp, my ex-fiancée Madeline Bassett, a newly-discovered passion for flower arrangement, a series of chains (the real sort, with iron and everything, not the fanciful metaphora-whatsit types Madeline does like to go on about), and a truly unfortunate recipe for steak tartare.

But no – in this case the _truly_ fruity bit lies in the _denouement,_ which is the word for the bit that comes between “the end of the disaster at hand” and “the end of the story.” Dashed useful word, that. I expect it’s one of Shakespeare’s.

And so I will take us directly to the point where Jeeves responded, “I shall do so directly, sir,” and leave the reader to contemplate the summary of prior details at their own leisure.

In that exact moment, nothing struck the Wooster senses as unusual. Oh, I half expected Jeeves's response to be “I have already done so, sir” – but for him to have fallen slightly behind peak performance, well, even a paragon such as Jeeves must do that sometimes. Especially as it had been nearly a week since he encountered any fish, other than the inedibly stuffed kind. In short, there was absolutely no reason to suspect something amiss.

So I suspected no s.a. for several days, until I happened to be looking in my wardrobe, and what should I lay my hands upon except – the burgundy suit!

I nearly fell over, the shock was so great.

Perhaps you have read my previous writings about my iron will, my ability to stand firm, my resolve not to bend at Jeeves’s various expressions of sartorial tyranny.

Here, then, I must confess. A certain amount of artistic license has been taken. Although I maintain my strength of conviction in every other area, when Jeeves chooses to fight a battle over fashion, he invariably wins. I mount a strong defence in the name of honour, but in private I admit that the end is a foregone conclusion.

If I had known Jeeves less well, or cared for him less deeply, this would be an occasion for triumph and delight. Instead, my heart sank in my chest, as swiftly and inexorably as (confirmed by recent experience) an item bound with an iron chain will sink in a small pond.

For the rest of the day I studied Jeeves intently. If he had contracted a secret illness, or received some news of some tragic family disaster – in short, anything monumental enough to make him forget the offensive item in my wardrobe – surely it would affect his routine in other ways.

To my great relief, I saw no slip, no fault, no sign of any distress in his magnificent form. He seemed as hale and composed as ever.

Which meant – what?

Was this a softening of the heart, a subtle invitation to wear the burgundy suit as I liked? Or was it some sort of test, in which I would demonstrate my concern for Jeeves’s feelings by resisting the temptation, and sparing him from the sight of such a garish (his term, not mine) hue on the Wooster person?

At last I concluded that this puzzle was beyond my faculties, and the only thing for it was to gather my courage and face the matter head-on. If I gave any offence by asking, surely it would at least be less than the offence I gave by making a guess, and guessing wrong.

“A softening of the heart, Jeeves?” I asked over breakfast.

“Pardon, sir?” the paragon replied. I fancied I saw one eyebrow raise an eighth of an inch. Although perhaps it was a trick of the light.

“A spark of generosity? An unspoken expression of thankfulness for my actions in the matter of . . .” I waved my hand in a gesture that was meant to convey the idea of _steak tartare,_ but in a subtle, non-disturbing sort of way. “Or perhaps – a stunning but welcome evolution in personal taste?”

“I am sorry, Mr. Wooster, I do not follow,” said Jeeves. “I must ask you to speak more directly.”

“The burgundy suit, dash it!” I dashed. “It has been days – days, Jeeves! – since I gave you leave to return it, and yet it remains in my closet, as burgundy and as suit-y as ever. Whence comes this undeserved generosity? Is it my birthday? Have the fashion magazines sallied forth as one and declared burgundy the colour of the season? Do you have knowledge of some coming apocalypse, and this is your small way of bringing some joy into my final days?”

Jeeves’s face softened. “I believe I see the confusion, sir,” he said. “And although the news does not paint the political situation in the most agreeable light, I would not describe it as ‘apocalyptic’ just yet.”

Well, that was disconcerting, what? I had brought up apocalypses as a purely theoretical notion, and here Jeeves thought the real world was in a state that I might have been plausibly alluding to.

I had no time to dwell on this, however, as my man continued in his reassuringly confident tone: “I did return the suit. However, since only the colour was objectionable – the cut and the style were acceptable, even flattering – I ordered a replacement, in a more respectable charcoal. Seeing it in the shadows of the wardrobe, you must have mistaken the hue.”

“I say,” I said, uncertainly. The shadows hadn’t been deep at all, but if there is one thing that can make me re-evaluate my own eyesight, it is Jeeves’s confidence. “I suppose I must have.”

“Shall I lay it out today, sir, so you can wear it, and see it in the light?”

That was just the pip I needed to feel better. When Jeeves turns his great brain toward finding the _mot juste,_ he never fails.

I don’t suppose you need all the details involved in a gentleman being dressed by his gentleman’s gentleman. Suffice to say, when the two of us were faced with the real suit, at the same time, in the same light, we both bestowed our approval on the results.

“You must have a truly sensitive eye, Jeeves,” I marvelled, as he fastened my cufflinks on a suit-sleeve that seemed to me just as spiffing as the previous one, if not more so. “Did you ever try being a painter?”

“I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the inclination.”

“Do you enjoy art museums, then? Or – is it the other way round, are they an absolute fright?” Any time one of the artist chappies tried to draw in a nice sober charcoal and mixed their paint just a touch too dark, Jeeves would be horrified at the garish burgundy. Unless having equally sensitive eyes is one of the requirements for being a painter? Perhaps that’s why I never had the inclination either.

Thinking back on it now, I am quite certain that Jeeves gave me a queer look. I must have noticed it sub-minimally (if that is the word I want), for at the time, I was too relieved at the non-imminent demise of either him or the world in general to notice. “They can be quite pleasant, sir.”

“Well! The next time you see an exhibition that calls to your fancy, say the word, and I shall give you the day off to go enjoy it. Rest your eyes with some sights more aesthetically sophisticated than the young master, what?”

There was perhaps half a second’s hesitation, also lost to me in the moment, except on the sub-minimal-ish sort of level. “I appreciate the generosity, sir.”

***

It must have been full weeks later, for the suit had cycled through the wash to return to my wardrobe and the car no longer smelled vaguely of onions, when the topic returned. That is, not the topic of museums, but of how Jeeves might experience them, vis-a-vis how the y. m. might experience same.

I was on the verge of stepping out to the Drones when Jeeves burst out – that is to say, he spoke in a fractionally louder tone of voice than his usual – “You cannot leave in this condition, sir.”

“I say, what?” I looked down at my outfit – a handsome navy suit that had never evoked so much as a raised eyebrow, even by Jeeves’s hidebound tastes. Plain cufflinks. Black shoes. All the pieces on front-way-round. “Is there a stain? Or . . .”

“It is the socks, sir,” said Jeeves. “They do not match.”

“Pish!” I pished, although I lifted my pant-legs to confirm. “Pshaw,” I added for emphasis, after the examination confirmed my prior statement. “I was prepared to grant you the subtle difference between charcoal and burgundy – but these are entirely the same.”

“To my eye, they are entirely different.”

“Pshaw again, Jeeves! You were the one who laid them out for me.”

Jeeves looked deeply strained, an effect which was both deeply alarming and so subtle I doubt any language has the words to describe it. “I have made a grave error, sir.”

This was altogether too much. I stepped away from the door and approached Jeeves, the better to have a real conversation. “Jeeves, what is really going on here? You do not make grave errors. If you were to walk past the grave of someone _else’s_ error, I have no doubt it would find itself returned to the peak of health, and would claw its way up through the six-feet-under to rejoin the world of the living. What has come over you? Are you unwell? If there is anything you need – medical treatment, specialists, time off – you must know, I would rather be left to fish myself out of a hundred soups while you recover, than have you save the young master’s bacon those hundred times if it means you collapse of brain fever and pass away before the hundred-and-first.”

At this point Jeeves cut me off, out of what I believe was mostly concern, although some small amount of horror at my amalgamation of food metaphors would not have been out-of-place. “I did not realize I was causing you such distress, Mr. Wooster,” he said softly. “If I had realized – please put your mind at ease. I am not unwell. My hesitation is because I am ashamed to admit that I gave you mismatched socks on purpose, to discover whether you would notice.”

I may have reeled a bit. If Jeeves intended to convince me that he was the picture of mental health, this was hardly the way to do it.

However, the _pshaw_ -laden memory of recent sock-checking asserted itself, and suddenly I felt all had become clear. “Jeeves, I feel all has become clear,” I declared. “Your splendid brain is still in top shape, but something is amiss with your vision. You see mismatches, where only matches exist.”

Jeeves shook his head. “I believe you suffer from protanopia, sir.”

“Unless you are forewarning me that Protanopia is the name of an up-and-coming fiancée, I am quite sure I do not.”

“It is a deficiency in the ability to see certain colours, compared to the typical human population.”

“I did feel it was unlikely for two human beings to willingly name their child Protanopia, but Jeeves, this is even less likely. Of course I can see colour.”

“I have been discreetly evaluating your reaction to different hues for some time now. You can distinguish some of them, but not all. At this moment, your left sock is a dark blue, and your right sock is a bright red.”

I don’t mind admitting that I lifted my pant legs once more, to make absolutely certain my eyes did not deceive. “Rubbish, Jeeves,” I declared. “Yes, the one has a bit of a reddish look to it, but no more or less than the other. I will wear them to the Drones as-is, and I will not hear another word about the matter. Is that understood?”

“It is, sir.” Jeeves looked the smallest I had ever seen him, which is quite a feat when it has his impressive height and broad shoulders to reckon with. “I apologize most sincerely. Do you wish me to tender my resignation?”

It is a rather childish thing to roll one’s eyes, so I restrained myself, although they may have twitched enough for Jeeves to interpret the meaning in spite of my best efforts. “Jeeves. My good man. Did I, or did I not, mere moments ago, make a declaration of the extremes I would rather suffer than lose you?”

“You did, sir,” admitted Jeeves.

“Surely, having experience of my troubles with aunts and fiancées first-hand, you can recognize that those are a greater source of trial than a bit of un- _preux_ behaviour over socks?”

“I find that a logical conclusion.”

“Well then! Let’s say no more about that either, shall we? And now, I really must be off, or the Drones will be halfway through the roll-tossing by the time I enter the front door. I expect you will carry out your ordinary evening routine, and remain in residence when I return.”

Jeeves nodded. “I will, sir.”

***

If you are familiar with my previous writings, you may now be shouting at the page, “Bertram, you fool! My only experience of Jeeves is through your faithful description, and yet I have already anticipated where this plot is leading! How do you, who knows the man in person, fail to see it?”

Well, it seems that “Wooster failing to see things” is somewhat of a running theme.

I returned from the club earlier than planned, feeling rattled, disconcerted, and entirely out-of-sorts. Jeeves was not in sight; fortunately, there was a light under the door of his room, proving he had not carried out a surprise resignation-turned-disappearance in the interim. Under ordinary conditions, I would not disturb my man when he has retired for the night, but I felt I could not sleep without speaking to him.

I knocked at the door. It was meant to be a presence-announcing rather than permission-seeking sort of knock, so I opened without waiting for a reply. “Jeeves? I feel I cannot sleep without speaking to you.”

Jeeves was sitting in bed, holding what must have been (judging by its size and heft) a volume of Spinoza. Or that one French chap’s novel about all the sad folks. Or possibly a pair of paving-stones, cleverly painted to resemble a book.

One could understand a lapse of his general unflappability, considering that he had nearly resigned within the past few hours, and had also changed into a pair of striped pyjamas. However, he seemed only minimally flapped as he put the paving-stones aside and said, “If you will permit me a moment to get dressed?”

“Of course!” I stepped back, shut the door, attempted to exercise a heroic amount of patience, and failed. “Jeeves?” I asked, voice raised to carry through the wood. “I don’t suppose you contacted the rest of the Drones earlier, and persuaded them to go along with this proto-whatsit story of yours?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Ah! As I thought.”

My friends have many talents, but if they were all such convincing actors, we would have given up the life of layabouts and part-time writers to become an award-winning theatre troupe. To say nothing of the amount of cunning they would have needed to expand the scheme to include the bartender, several waitresses, and the cabbie on the way home.

A rummy feeling of wobbliness went through my knees at this point, and I leaned against the door, as the preferable alternative to collapsing into the carpet.

After a moment of silence, Jeeves said, “May I surmise that your friends took notice of your sartorial asymmetricality?”

“You may indeed surmise, Jeeves.” I cast a doleful look at, for lack of any better direction, the nearest wall. “You may further surmise they were shocked that I was able to ‘sneak past you’ and get out of the house in such a state. So your reputation for good taste has not been afflicted.”

Another beat of silence passed, broken only by the muffled sound of bustling. This speaking-through-a-door wheeze was awkward. “I am glad to hear it.”

“I made some effort to convince them that I had stood against you in a titanic battle of wills, to which you eventually relented. Somehow, they found this even less credible than the version with the sneaking.” In any lesser night, this might have been the most disconcerting point in the conversation. I’m _sure_ I’ve told the Drones about any number of the times I matched wills against Jeeves, and came out victorious.

Jeeves made no comment on this. His next words, in a louder and less-muffled voice, were, “You may open the door again, sir.”

I did, and promptly had to revise the preceding thought. Although Jeeves had replaced the soft pyjamas with one of his familiar daylight ensembles, he had not kept me waiting long enough to do the topmost button on his shirt, or to bring the usual order to his currently-tousled hair. _This_ would have been the most disconcerting part of the night.

“I have been reading a book of research on the subject of colour deficiencies.” Jeeves held up said b. of r., restoring some of the equilibrium to the world. “Shall I show you?”

***

We sat on the sofa in the parlour – together. My feet, you see, were continuing to have some trouble keeping me upright, and I felt strongly that I wanted Jeeves at my side, rather than looming over me. He has quite a loom, even when he doesn’t mean to.

Most of the book was done up in the usual lack of colour anyway, but in the middle was this set of colour pages with circles printed on them. “These were designed by a Japanese surgeon,” said Jeeves. “Different types of colour deficiency prevent people from identifying the numbers in different plates.”

“Japanese fellow, what?” I said, tracing the blue (I thought) number that stood out in the middle of a green (I surmised) pattern. “Dashed decent of him to use Roman numerals. If he’d used Japanese ones, I dare say I wouldn’t be able to identify any of them, and then you’d diagnose me with all the types at once.”

The smallest twitch in Jeeves’s face betrayed that he had to resist launching into an instructive tangent about Japanese numerals. “Some researchers believe these visual limitations affect up to eight percent of men.”

“What! That many?”

“Yes, sir. When considering all the types together. Your individual type would be rarer.”

“Just the coves, though?” I asked. Jeeves is normally more precise than to say things like _men_ when he really means _humans,_ but I wanted to be sure. “Not the fillies?”

“No, sir. It is believed to be related to genetics, although the specific mechanism is unclear.”

“Well, if it’s unclear to _you_ , I suppose it’d be downright opaque to me.”

“Differences in colour vision are common throughout the natural world,” continued Jeeves – rather smoothly changing the subj., I must say. “Dogs, for instance, are thought to have a reduced spectrum of vision similar to yours. Honeybees, meanwhile, have more sensitive colour vision than any human. It is theorized that some flowers, if not most of them, have evolved beautiful hues and patterns that none of us can see, because their appeal to humans is irrelevant so long as they are able to attract pollinators.”

“I suppose you, in turn, might be making unwitting sartorial choices that would horrify a honeybee?” I supposed. “If it was a discerning sort of honeybee, I mean.”

“It is a distinct possibility, sir.”

I stared down at my feet once more. A fellow can brace himself for all sorts of trials, but to have one’s sense of the world rocked by one’s socks – there is no preparing it.

To think, all this time “red” was a brilliant and jaunty hue, just about as bright as yellow! So many items I had thought to be rather dark and sober, and it turns out they had been fairly dazzling the rest of the world, entirely unknown to self. And also to dogs.

I felt a sudden swell of _esprit de corps_ with the entire canine species. At least in the theoretical. I doubted it would survive the next time I met one of the yappy little monsters in person.

Evidently Jeeves noticed the turn in my attention (in re: socks, that is, not canines). “I must apologize for some of my statements – and, indeed, private judgments – regarding your clothing choices,” he said softly. “While some of them were patently unwise – that is to say, certain unseemly styles of hat, or choices of accessory – there are items I surely would have judged as downright austere, if I saw them only through your eyes. My objections must have seemed quite arbitrary and unfair at times.”

(Let it be known that I stand by all my decisions regarding hats. But that was a conversation for another time.)

“All is forgiven, Jeeves,” I said, eyelids beginning to sink. The night had been exhausting, even without the usual full innings of competitive roll-throwing, and Morpheus’s whatsit of sleep was beginning to drift over the Wooster spirit. “Think of it no more. In fact, from now on, I will leave my sartorial choices almost entirely in your hands. Silver lining for you, what? If silver is what I think it is. Speaking of which – what is burgundy, really?”

“A dark but noticeable shade of red, sir.”

“Jolly good.”

“There may be small advantages for you, as well,” offered Jeeves. “For instance – the military requires full-colour vision in its recruits. Should there be another war, you would not be pressed into service.”

“Oh, there’s not going to be _another_ war,” I said. Or perhaps mumbled. “We’ve had the one that ended them already. I’m surprised that hasn’t come up in your history books.”

Jeeves’s arm went around my shoulders. For the first time, I noted with mild surprise that I had begin to slump against his side. “I believe it’s time for you to retire, sir. Allow me to assist you.”

Never let it be said that I would refuse an offer from Jeeves to take me to bed. “Yes, Jeeves.”

***

I suppose that does it for the ending – and yet, there is also a post-ending scene that I feel compelled to attach to the same narrative. A _denouement_ to the _denouement_ , as it were.

A few weeks later, I had the misfortune of encountering Madeline Bassett once more, and though I dreaded getting entrapped in any conversations about dream-rabbits and elf-veils, I was honour-bound to make my own apologies.

You see, at our previous meeting there had been some unkind commentary re: her newly-discovered passion for flower-arranging, before the whole thing was derailed in a mustard-y sort of way that I still shudder to think about. In hindsight, it seemed more likely to be my failing than hers.

Meaning the commentary, not the mustard. That fell entirely on Gussie Fink-Nottle’s shoulders.

The long and short of it is, I confessed to La Bassett that I had discovered my vision to be less sensitive than most, and therefore I was unable to fully appreciate the artistry of her n.-d. passion for f.-a., and she ought not to put a moment of stock in my reaction.

Madeline’s reaction was a jumble of _Oh Bertie_ -ing, and tears welling up in her already-misty eyes, and various declarations of great regret that I had no keen-eyed woman in my life to take suitable care of my appearance. There was even a gesture in the direction of offering to throw over poor Gussie, in light of Wooster’s optical misfortune giving him the greater need, until I convinced her that Jeeves had the situation well in hand.

I can only hope that has this succeeded at averting a full-on matrimonial misunderstanding, of the sort that would generate a complete follow-up narrative in its own right.

At least, no full-on m. m. has developed in advance of this publication deadline. And if it unfolds in time to be printed by the next one, I can take some comfort in knowing I have the first scene already written. Save a bit of time, what?

In the evening I treated myself to a luxurious bath while reporting the whole encounter to Jeeves. I had first tried to report it to my rubber duck, but there was a certain amount of pride at having dodged the soup under my own power, and Jeeves was far more congratulatory than the duck was.

“I do feel a bit of a fathead, though,” I confessed. “Why, Madeline was probably creating any number of elaborate designs, in all shades of red and orange and yellow. Possibly even green. I’ve never heard anyone describe a flower as green, but perhaps it’s one of those things so obvious to the average johnnie, he never stops to put it into words?”

“Green flowers are not typical in nature,” affirmed Jeeves from the doorway. “That said, some botanists have bred existing flowers in order to develop green cultivars. I have seen such done with the carnation, for example.”

“Genetics again, eh? What won’t that do next.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And here I was, dismissing Madeline’s work as an uninteresting mass of yellow, even congratulating myself for my superior and sophisticated taste! When all the time it was the floral equivalent of those Ishi-whatsit plates. What was the hidden pattern in these ones, Jeeves? Can you describe it for me?”

A curious look passed across Jeeves’s face. “You may go a little easier on yourself in this respect, sir,” he said. “In truth, I found Miss Bassett’s work similarly unimpressive.”

“What – really?”

“I had the diplomacy not to tell her so, but yes. At least in the arrangement I saw, all the flowers were very similar in colour. Had I been responsible, I would have broken up the visual similarity with some contrasting hues, but I surmised that Miss Bassett found the yellow – it was, indeed, yellow – too delightful to miss an opportunity.”

“Well!” I said. And then, as that seemed inadequate, I continued: “Well, well.”

With this information, an idea began to take shape in the Wooster head. It was rather a complicated idea, and I haven’t much of a scientific mind, so it took some time for the grey matter (if grey is what I think it is – did you ever notice, before, how many common expressions are colour-based?) to assemble the pieces.

Which meant I was fully in pyjamas and on the verge of retiring when it came together, and I called, “Jeeves?”

He shimmered into view. “Sir?”

“If there is some genetic thingummy that leads certain men to see fewer colours . . . does that imply that it has an equal-and-opposite such-and-such, whereby some women see _more_ than the usual?”

Jeeves looked uncharacteristically ponderous. That is, the faintest shadow of a crease appeared between his eyebrows.

Supposing I had explained it badly, I continued. “That is – although I would _never_ say such in her presence, knowing the Icarus-type flights of metaphorical fancy it might spawn – could a filly, for instance Madeline Bassett, land the genes to set her up for appreciating flowers with honeybee-vision?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wooster, my knowledge of biology is insufficient to estimate how likely this might be. It sounds . . . plausible. I am not aware of any research on the matter – but as you might imagine, it would be a difficult thing to evaluate.”

“Well . . . would it, in your estimation, explain other previously-inexplicable visual sentiments of Madeline’s? The way the discovery of red-blindness on the part of yours-truly shed a new and revelatory light on sartorial choices?”

There was a long silence, and when any problem takes more than a few seconds for Jeeves’s brain to work through, you know it’s quite the pip. At last he said, “I believe it would, sir.”

So there you have it. Jeeves has thought the matter over and delivered his verdict. I’m sure it won’t take more than a few decades for the scientists to catch up.

And if any reader has come to this point feeling distress, or pity, or (though I hate to be so uncharitable about your motives) some smug sense of superiority over poor Bertram, whose sense of colour is so impoverished compared to your own – now is the moment to reconsider.

The next time you are ambling through a garden, or perusing an art museum, or simply walking down the street, look around and picture all the reds gone. Then, make your very best effort to picture the reverse, multiplying all the existing colours with an imaginary extra rainbow. Then consider that such a world really exists! Invisible to you, just as much as it is to me, with only a tiny fraction of lucky humans privy to the secret fullness of its glory.

I say, perhaps I should give Madeline’s theories more credit, what? If, to take just one example, tiny wee elves had been real all along, but only came in the secret colours – why, she might be seeing them in person on a daily basis, and none of the rest of us would know.

Not even Jeeves!

**Author's Note:**

> Belated endnotes:
> 
> \- [Ishihara plates](https://www.colour-blindness.com/colour-blindness-tests/ishihara-colour-test-plates/) for identifying colourblindness in humans  
> \- [colourblindness simulator](https://www.color-blindness.com/coblis-color-blindness-simulator/) which converts your uploaded images  
> \- [green carnations](https://www.oscarwildetours.com/our-symbol-the-green-carnation/), a history  
> \- [flowers in simulated bee vision](http://photographyoftheinvisibleworld.blogspot.com/search/label/bee%20vision) via UV photography and colour-manipulation  
> \- [tetrachromatic vision in humans](https://www.healthline.com/health/tetrachromacy) (this is different from UV-sensitive vision, but as that wasn't studied until almost 100 years after Jeeves's time, he can't be faulted for not anticipating the exact details)


End file.
